Chapter 4 - THE TAPE IN THE LAWYER’S OFFICE
For two days, time ceased to exist in any meaningful way.
Life became a endless blur of fluorescent lights, the smell of rubbing alcohol, and the steady, rhythmic chimes of ICU monitors.
By Tuesday afternoon, the antibiotics finally began to break the hold of the infection in Emily’s body. Her fever broke, dropping to 99.2 degrees. The gray color slowly drained from her face, replaced by a pale, fragile skin tone that looked human again.
At 3:15 PM, she opened her eyes.
I was sitting right beside her, holding her limp hand against my cheek. The moment her eyelids fluttered, I froze.
“Ethan...?” her voice was barely a breath, dry as sandpaper.
“I’m here, baby,” I choked out, pressing my lips against her knuckles. “I’m right here. You’re safe. You’re in the hospital.”
Her eyes moved frantically around the room, full of terror. “Noah... where is Noah? Is he... did he...”
“He’s upstairs in the pediatric unit,” I said quickly, tears running down my face. “He’s alive, Em. He’s safe. The doctors fixed him. He’s going to be okay.”
Emily let out a long, shuddering sob, her chest heaving beneath the hospital gown. She squeezed my fingers with what little strength she had left.
“They wouldn't... they wouldn't bring him to me, Ethan,” she wept, the words coming in ragged bursts. “I tried to get up. My legs... I fell off the bed on Saturday night. I couldn't climb back up. Linda came in... she looked at me on the floor... and she locked the door from the outside.”
Every drop of blood in my body went ice-cold.
“She locked the door?” I repeated, my voice terrifyingly calm.
“She said... she said I was an ungrateful bitch,” Emily sobbed, hiding her face against my arm. “She said you belonged to them before you met me... and that I was trying to steal your paycheck with a baby. Ashley took my phone, Ethan. She took my phone off the nightstand while I was crying for water.”
I didn't answer. I couldn't. If I opened my mouth, I felt like I would scream until my lungs ruptured.
I stayed with Emily until she drifted off to sleep under the influence of her pain medication. Then, leaving my mother-in-law—who had rushed in from Cleveland the moment she heard—to watch over her, I walked out of the hospital and took a cab straight to the downtown legal district.
I had an appointment at 5:00 PM with Marcus Vance, one of the most ruthless family and criminal defense attorneys in Franklin County.
The law office of Vance & Associates sat on the thirty-second floor of a glass tower overlooking the Scioto River. Marcus Vance—a tall man in his fifties with immaculate silver hair, a tailored charcoal suit, and sharp, calculating eyes—sat behind a glass desk, reviewing the preliminary police reports Detective Santos had forwarded to his office.
“Mr. Miller,” Vance said, gesturing toward a leather armchair. “Sit.”
I sat down, my arms crossed tightly over my chest. “Detective Santos said you took my case pro bono after speaking with Dr. Aris.”
“Dr. Aris is my sister-in-law,” Vance replied smoothly, closing the folder. “When she calls me at seven in the morning sounding like she’s ready to strangle someone with a stethoscope, I listen. Now, let’s discuss the situation.”
Vance leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk.
“Your mother, Linda Miller, and your sister, Ashley Miller, were formally indicted an hour ago by a grand jury,” Vance stated. “The charges are severe: two counts of felony child endangerment, one count of felonious assault, one count of unlawful imprisonment, and one count of deprivation of necessary medical care to a vulnerable person.”
I let out a long breath. “Are they in jail?”
“They are currently held at the Franklin County Correctional Center,” Vance said. “Bail was set at $500,000 each. Needless to say, neither of them has the resources to post ten percent.”
A small, bitter sense of justice sparked in my stomach. But Vance didn't look triumphant.
“However,” Vance continued, his eyes darkening, “their public defender filed an emergency motion this afternoon requesting a reduction in bail. And your mother... well, she gave a preliminary statement to the press through her attorney outside the courthouse.”
Vance turned a computer monitor toward me and pressed play on a local news video.
On the screen stood my mother, wearing an orange orange jumpsuit, her hair slightly messy, looking into the local news cameras with tears streaming down her face. She looked helpless. She looked like a frail, heartbroken older woman being persecuted by an ungrateful system.
“I love my grandson!” Linda sobbed into the microphone while her court-appointed lawyer stood beside her. “I was only trying to help! Emily was depressed! She refused to eat! She locked herself in that room! We tried so hard to take care of her, but she’s unstable! Ethan was tricked by her!”
The video paused.
I stared at the frozen image of my mother’s face on the screen. The same face that had tucked me into bed when I was a boy. The same face that had smiled at me in my kitchen four days ago and told me my wife would be safe.
“She’s turning it on Emily,” I whispered, my voice shaking with pure fury. “She’s trying to claim postpartum psychosis.”
“Precisely,” Vance said. “And in front of a jury, a frail sixty-two-year-old grandmother crying about her daughter-in-law’s 'mental instability' can create reasonable doubt. The prosecution needs incontrovertible proof of intent.”
“We have the note,” I said. “The note Ashley wrote!”
“Ashley’s lawyer will argue Ashley wrote that as a silly, unthinking joke between sisters,” Vance warned. “We need something stronger. Something that proves knowledge, intent, and deliberate cruelty.”
I sat in silence for a long moment, watching the evening sun set over the city skyline.
Then, something sparked in the back of my memory.
A detail from the morning I had arrived home.
“The house...” I said slowly, looking up at Vance. “My rental house has an automated smart home security hub. I installed it two years ago to save on heating bills.”
Vance narrowed his eyes. “Does it have cameras?”
“No,” I replied. “No cameras inside the bedrooms. But it has a central hub in the hallway... and an active environmental sensor system with an integrated microphone that logs indoor temperatures, door sensor triggers, and ambient sound files whenever the humidity or heat spikes past safety limits.”
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Marcus Vance slowly stood up from his leather chair. A slow, lethal smile spread across his face.
“Mr. Miller,” Vance whispered, grabbing his coat off the rack. “Get in my car. We are going to get those server logs.”
